


Masquerade

by okapi



Series: Clothes Make the Woman [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Costumes, Cunnilingus, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Foursome - F/F/F/F, Genderswap, Incest, Multi, Orgy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sort of like the Thank You Notes Afterwards, Tagging for an Orgy is Tedious, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the prompting of Lestrade, Sherlock and John go to Paris to investigate a mystery. While there, Lestrade and Mycroft join them. The four attend a Venetian-style masquerade costume ball where the entire party is drugged by the villains. Group sexytimes ensue. All genderswapped. PWP. Fancy dress/costume porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

“John! Where are you?”

“Mycroft and I are on the south side balcony, watching for movement at the exits. It’s a pretty good vantage point. We can see the entire party.”

“I think I’ve figured out how the criminals managed to distract such a large number of people simultaneously. They gave the entire group a previously-unknown benzodiazepine derivative…”

“They drugged them? How could you drug that many people at one time? And no one remembers anything?”

“The drug would have the ability to cause strong long-term amnesia along with the immediate effects of decreased inhibitions, increased sensitivity to stimulation, and a lower threshold for arousal. I think they put it into the water. It’s an odorless and tasteless drug. It had to be something all the guests would have come in contact with …”

John giggled softly, “ _Stop it, Mycroft! That tickles!_ ” 

Sherlock’s expression went cold. “John! Did you drink the water?!”

“No, silly! I had whiskey. And Mycroft drank…I can never pronounce it….” 

More giggling, then John’s phone cut.

 

 

“They having any luck? Learn anything new?” Lestrade asked as she approached, two full glasses of iced punch in hand. 

“Yes, two things, one, the chemical composition and action of the drug, remarkably, does not change with extreme fluctuations in temperature.”

“Which means?”

“It can be frozen and unfrozen and still retain its properties,” Sherlock took the glass of punch from Lestrade and swirled it. “It’s in the ice.”

“Hmmm. What’s the second thing?”

“John and Mycroft have both been exposed to the drug. Together.” Sherlock gave the final word a menacing hiss.

“Ho, ho, HO,” Lestrade laughed. “So they’re…”

“Well on their way to a chemical-induced euphoria. We’ve got to find them. And beat some sense into them.” Sherlock’s nostrils flared, and she brushed roughly past Lestrade.

Lestrade grabbed her shoulder and turned her. 

“Sherlock, wait just a second. Yes, that’s one option. The other option is to take a night off from sleuthing and… _join them_.” 

Lestrade held up her glass and smiled, invitingly.

Sherlock stared at her for a very long moment, then raised her glass and with a curl of a smile and said,

“ _Cheers_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a PWP outtake of a future casefic set in Paris. The mystery is introduced by Lestrade in [Impaired Judgment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124308/chapters/2266160%20) and mentioned by John in [Morning Dress](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1125896/chapters/2269971). Also part of a collection of PWPs with clothing & underclothing themes in a genderswapped universe.


	2. Mycroft & John on the balcony

Mycroft and John were looking down from the balcony at an interior courtyard. Hundreds of guests were milling below, drinking and chatting and laughing. 

An orchestral ensemble struck up a song, and some couples started dancing.

John began swaying, too.

“What are we supposed to be looking for again?” she asked. 

John was dressed in a French-style ball gown of peach silk. The low-cut bodice was trimmed with cream-coloured lace. The sleeves were long and ruffled and edged with matching lace. A petticoat peaked out at her cleavage. It had a corset-type top, crisscrossed in the front with gold ribbon and securely fastened in the back with heftier thread. The skirt of the gown swelled and cascaded to the floor like a pastel waterfall. Her hair was piled fantastically high on her head and secured with a comb adorned with a golden butterfly. The comb matched her mask, which was painted in peach and white and gold swirls. It covered the top half of her face, and the wings of the butterfly curled down around her cheeks. She was idly fluttering a cream-coloured lace fan, scanning the crowd.

Mycroft answered with a low whisper to her ear, “Villains, of some nature.” Mycroft took John’s empty glass and set it down on a far stone ridge with her own.

Mycroft was wearing a coat and breeches of dark brown, the colour of dark roasted coffee. Her waistcoat was bronze. She wore a bronze Diavolo mask with a pointy nose and two sinister horns on the head. A cream-coloured ruffle was loosely fixed at her neck. Matching stockings led to shiny black shoes with bronze buckles.

“Dr. Watson, would you like to dance?” Mycroft angled her head to brush her lips along John’s neckline. John shivered. She shut her fan and let it hang from her wrist by a gold ribbon.

“Love to.” 

They moved together gracefully, closing the space between them, well, as much as John’s skirt would permit. At the start of the following song, John caught Mycroft openly leering at her cleavage. She puffed out her chest in response. Mycroft drew her tongue across her top lip. John slipped her left hand down Mycroft’s back and under her coat. She slid a flat palm down atop Mycroft's breeches until her middle finger fit snugly at the cleft of her buttocks. John pressed gently.

“Naughty girl!” said Mycroft huskily.

“Oh!” said John. She turned, fleeing Mycroft’s arms. She stepped closer to the balcony railing, pressing against a stone pillar. “I do feel so deliciously naughty tonight! So very, very _wicked_.” John’s voice was high-pitched and breathy. 

She batted her eyelashes coquettishly at Mycroft and then blushed, hiding her face. 

Mycroft closed in behind her. “Tell me your wicked, wicked thoughts, Dr. Watson.” She picked up John’s hand and kissed the top of it. 

“You were… _looking_ ,” she nodded at her chest. John was at the railing, facing outwards; she opened her fan.

“They, and you, are quite lovely.” Behind the screen of the fan, Mycroft slipped a hand around John to gently cup her left breast through the gown. John gave a soft moan.

“I want to…”

“Yes?” Mycroft rubbed the nipple slowly with her thumb. John’s fan quivered.

“…to lean out and show them. _To everyone_.” John turned her head and looked wide-eyed at Mycroft.

Mycroft sharply sucked in a breath of air. She nuzzled behind John’s ear and gave it two kitten licks. 

“Let me get them nice and hard and then you can show them off.”

“Oh! Loosen me a little.”

Mycroft reached into the back of John’s dress and gave strong tugs to the ties. John spun and leaned back against the stone pillar. With John’s fan shielding them, Mycroft pulled the right side of the bodice down, exposing John’s breast. 

Careful of her mask, Mycroft bowed and latched on to John’s nipple. John threw her head back hard against the stone.

“Oh!” John sighed, “ _Yes, like that_.” John weaved the fingers of her left hand in Mycroft’s hair and pulled her closer. Mycroft sucked greedily. 

“Oh, Mycroft,” John said. Mycroft stopped and looked at her briefly. “You’re… _hungry_ ,” giggled John.

“Famished,” Mycroft grinned.

“Then, _feast_ ,” and with that, John tugged the left side of her bodice down, and Mycroft groaned and switched sides.

When John’s nipples were pebbled, Mycroft planted a kiss at the cleft between them and asked, “Still feeling wicked?” 

“Yes!” laughed John. 

“Allez-y,” said Mycroft, pushing the fan down. 

John leaned out over the railing, holding the bodice of the gown down, and wiggled. It seemed that the party was beginning to show the effects of the chemical that had been interjected into the night’s celebration. The dancing had taken on a writhing quality and unabashed caresses and kisses—between pairs and across them—were on display. 

Shouts and whistles came up from the ground floor at John. She cupped her breasts and squeezed them, sending up another wave of lascivious calls. 

“Naughty, naughty girl,” said Mycroft. “You need a good spanking.” She held John’s waist firmly with one hand and bent her further forward with the other. She roughly lifted the volumes of fabric at the back of John’s gown and made a pantomime of smacking John’s bottom with her hand. John held her breasts in her hands and laughed. More whistles and lewd howls reached them.

“Give it to me good, Mycroft!” hooted John over her shoulder. Mycroft grabbed John’s hips with two hands and pushed into her. They rocked back and forth to the appreciation of their audience. 

John turned and wrapped her arms around Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft held her close. Both bodies shook with laughter and lust. 

 

 

Among the minority of the party’s guests who witnessed John and Mycroft’s antics were two sets of half-dilated eyes and two gaping mouths. 

“Oh, my,” said Lestrade, finally. She attempted to cool herself with a black lace fan.

“Indeed,” replied Sherlock; she took a long swig of the punch. 

Lestrade wore a dress of similar style to John’s, in dark green with black lace and ribbons. Her mask was also black lace; crystals outlined the upper edges of the eyeholes. Two ostrich feathers sprouted from the tower of platinum curls perched on her head.

Sherlock wore a coat and breeches of a midnight purple with a gold waistcoat. Her ruffle and stockings were white. Her black shoes were of a taller heel than her sister’s and had gold buckles. She wore a simple black leather mask.

Lestrade closed her fan and snuck her arm around Sherlock’s waist, feeling for—then tracing—the detective’s hipbone through her breeches. She whispered in Sherlock's ear, 

“Let’s find a room in this Versailles where we can all _play_.”

“Quickly,” agreed Sherlock. They downed the remains of their drinks simultaneously and threw the glasses in a nearby plant as they hurried to the staircase.


	3. Securing the premises

Sherlock and Lestrade led Mycroft and John to a palatial bedroom suite: vaulted ceiling, sprawling canopied bed, sofa and chairs arranged in a sitting area flanked by a fireplace, soft rugs on the floor.

Music drifted into the bedroom along with the squeals of laughter and loud groans from the bacchanal outside. Lestrade swirled into the room and made a fanciful curtsey in front of Mycroft, who took her hand, bowed ceremonially, and kissed it. The two danced with flourished twirls and spins and dips, punctuated by little kisses at necks and shoulders and cheeks when they swung into a close embrace. Sherlock and John clasp each other tightly, almost standing still, kissing with open mouths.

When the song ended, Lestrade cried, “Change partners!” and grabbed John’s hands, leading her away from Sherlock.

 

 

Sherlock and Mycroft moved to the window.

“We’re all drugged?”

“Yes,” answered Sherlock.

“Ice?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about this drug? Peak?”

“Two hours from ingestion.”

“Duration?”

“Best guess is 4-6 hours.”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft was thoughtful.

“I think we should make the most of our remaining faculties before…”

“Oblivion?” offered Mycroft.

“Yes, before _oblivion_ sets in. I can start a fire, and you can…”

“Secure the premises.” 

“Right.”

 

 

Lestrade and John held hands. Given the mountains of fabric between them, it was the closest they could come to an embrace without unbalancing themselves and toppling to the floor. 

“You look so beautiful, Greg,” said John. 

“So do you. You looked gorgeous up there on the balcony with Mycroft. I nearly broke my fan!” teased Lestrade. 

“Oh!” John blushed and looked down at their intertwined fingers.

“Don’t be shy. I quite like… _watching_.” Now it was Lestrade’s turn to blush. 

“Oh!” John said with a girlish expression. They were both silent for a moment. Then John whispered,

“Do you think you’d like to watch Sherlock and Mycroft _fuck_ me?”

Lestrade’s pupils blew completely dark. “Very much so,” she said huskily. 

John’s brow furrowed. “But not just watch?”

“No,” answered Lestrade. “Not _just_ watch. But for starters…”

John offered, “Maybe you could… _direct_ them a little?” 

Lestrade said, “An ol’ copper like me ordering those two about. Now _that’s_ a fantasy.” They both chuckled conspiratorially.

 

 

Sherlock stood up and appraised the fire. The wood glowed. The flames rose, and a warm current of air slowly wound through the room. She looked at Mycroft, who gave a slight nod.

“Ladies, I think we can dispense with these,” said Sherlock, pulling off her mask. “And move on to the rest of the night’s _entertainment_.”


	4. John

“Help me, my dear,” said Lestrade. 

As Mycroft had on the balcony, John loosened the fastenings in back of Lestrade’s gown so the bodice gaped slightly in the front. Then, John aided the detective inspector in ensconcing herself on the sofa by the fire. Billows of dark green silk and black lace filled the seat. 

Sherlock and Mycroft approached the scene by the fireplace in fine long-sleeved undershirts, sleeveless waistcoats and breeches, having removed their coats and ruffles. 

Lestrade fanned herself. “Mademoiselle Watson needs to be divested of the outer layer of her finery. Carefully,” ordered Lestrade in a regal tone that brokered no argument.

With light kisses at her neck and shoulders, Mycroft and Sherlock gently removed John’s gown.

“Unbind her,” said Lestrade. Mycroft unlaced John while Sherlock rained kisses down her neck, clavicles, and cleavage. With the front sufficiently loose, Sherlock pulled at the fabric and clamped onto John’s right breast. 

“Oh!” John’s knees buckled. Sherlock and Mycroft led her to recline in a chair opposite Lestrade. They knelt on either side of John; each sucking and nibbling at the closest breast. John squealed with delight and curled a hand around each head, holding them close. 

John and Lestrade locked eyes. 

“Having fun?”

“Yes! Are you?”

“Mmm-hmmm. But I want to see more of you.”

Sherlock and Mycroft helped John to her feet. They pulled the petticoat down and off. John crossed her arms around her bare breasts. She was left in white low-heeled shoes, white stockings and suspenders. Over the suspender belt were ….white men’s style cotton underpants. 

The four laughed at the incongruous sight. 

John protested, “I hate frilly knickers!” She hugged her arms tighter, self consciously. 

“Take them off her,” said Lestrade. “Then lay her down and make her forget her… _shyness_.”

Mycroft slipped John’s pants down and Sherlock knelt in front of her, bending to lick at her inner thighs. When John stepped out of the pants, she kicked off her shoes as well. Sherlock took John’s hands in hers and guided her down to the floor on her back, with her head toward Lestrade. John opened her legs and Sherlock buried her face between them, curling her arms under her thighs and lifting John’s hips slightly. 

John arched her back and sighed, then attempted to cross her arms over her chest again. 

“None of that,” said Lestrade. With a quick gesture, she took the ostrich feather out of her headdress, bent forward, and began to tickle John’s breasts and neck. John giggled and squirmed. Sherlock’s arms held her lower half firm. 

Lestrade gave a little kick to Mycroft, who was watching the scene before them with rapture. Lestrade nodded to the pair on the floor. Mycroft knelt and crawled toward them. When she was over John’s head, she looked down at her and cleared her throat.

“If I may…?”

John opened her eyes to an upside down Mycroft and nodded. Sherlock sat back on her heels and pulled John up. John turned on knees and hands, facing Lestrade. Sherlock curled underneath John on her back, and Mycroft positioned herself behind John, a knee on either side of Sherlock’s body. John took out her comb and threw it aside. Her blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders in soft waves. Mycroft kissed down John’s spine. Then she spread her buttocks and licked. Sherlock was licking, too. 

John gave a deep groan. She pushed up into Mycroft’s mouth, moving away from Sherlock; then, she lowered to chase Sherlock’s mouth, retreating from Mycroft. She mewled in frustration until the sisters moved closer together.

“OH, OH, OH!” cried John. She opened her eyes, and Lestrade was slowly getting to floor, amidst the cumbersome silk and lace of her dress. 

“John?” asked Lestrade.

“Mmmm?” 

“Tell me,” said Lestrade, crawling on all fours. John looked down the loose bodice of Lestrade’s gown, watching her breasts heave and swing as she moved.

“Sherlock’s tongue is in my cunt… _fucking me_.”

“And?”

“Mycroft’s tongue is in my arse… _fucking me_.”

“And?”

“I want your tongue in my mouth… _fucking me_.”

With that, Lestrade grabbed John’s head and kissed her roughly. Lestrade’s tongue had only thrust a couple of times, when John was arching, pulling away from Lestrade and Sherlock and Mycroft, with a scream. 

Lestrade and Mycroft quickly pulled off, retreating to the sofa and chair, respectively. John lunged hard forward and collapsed face down on the soft rug. Sherlock rolled up from between her legs acrobatically and gave a warning bark at Mycroft. Sherlock quickly covered John’s body with her own. John’s head was turned. Sherlock shielded them from the others’ eyes. John answered Sherlock’s concerned expression with a secret smile. Sherlock relaxed and gave the corner of John’s mouth a quick peck. 

Then Sherlock helped John to a sitting position. Sherlock unbuttoned her waistcoat and took off her undershirt. She re-buttoned the waistcoat casually and pulled her undershirt over John’ s head. John drew her arms through the sleeves. The lower hem of the tunic-like garment brushed John’s damp pubic hair. She pulled her stockinged legs to toward her chest and swept a curl out of her face. She looked at her companions. They were all watching her.

“Who’s next?” she asked, grinning.


	5. Lestrade

Lestrade sat on the sofa, breathing hard. Her breasts rose and fell sharply. The gown bodice was askew from her earlier crawling, and nipples threatened to escape from their confines. 

John moved to a spot in front of her, thumbing the silk draping of her gown. “I want to crawl up in your lap, but I don’t want to spoil your dress,” she said.

“Sod the dress!” cried Lestrade.

John looked puzzled and scanned the garment. They burst into laughter.

“Not literally, Watson!” cried Lestrade.

“Good, because I wasn’t sure how to do that. There’s so many things the nuns never taught us,” she snickered. 

John climbed into Lestrade’s lap and nuzzled at her cleavage. Then she slipped a tongue inside the fabric of the bodice, fishing for Lestrade’s nipples.

“Sherlock?” John threw the question over her shoulder.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock pressed against John’s back.

“Let’s get this crown off.”

Gingerly, they unpinned the wig and lifted it off Lestrade’s head. Lestrade tore the nylon cap underneath off. She ran her fingers through her short auburn hair.

“That does feel much better. Itchy thing.”

John stood up and carried the headdress to a far table in the room. When she returned, John curled on Mycroft’s lap in the chair opposite the sofa. Mycroft began caressing John’s buttock lazily, fingering the suspenders and the lacy tops of the stockings. Sherlock walked behind the sofa. 

“Let her show her gratitude for all the cases that you’ve let her work,” joked John. 

Sherlock bent to lick and bite at Lestrade’s neck, smoothing hands down her shoulders.

“How _grateful_ can she be?” countered Lestrade, breathlessly.

Mycroft’s fingers had found John’s wetness, tracing her labia faintly. John shifted her hips in invitation.

“ _Very_ ,” purred Sherlock, taking Lestrade’s earlobe in her mouth. Sherlock leaned even further to slip both hands inside the bodice and grasp Lestrade’s breasts firmly.

“ _Fuck!_ ” said Lestrade. Mycroft thrust an index finger in John’s cunt.

All four women moaned.

John and Mycroft watched Sherlock help Lestrade out of her gown and petticoat. When Lestrade’s curves were exposed, all three women were mesmerized. She had tiny black knickers on, with suspenders and black stockings. Mycroft and John stopped their playing and joined the other two.

Three mouths were on Lestrade, tasting shoulders, breasts, hips, belly, and buttocks. Lestrade groaned loudly.

“It’s amazing what you can accom—com—plish when you cooperate,” she chuckled. 

They removed the rest of Lestrade’s clothing. Then, John started on the outside of one leg from ankle working her way up, and Sherlock started on the inside of the opposite leg. They met at the center of Lestrade’s legs and laughed and kissed. John laid on the sofa and sucked gently at Lestrade’s clit from above while Sherlock knelt between her legs, licking her folds. Occasionally, their tongues met and danced together.

Lestrade twisted slightly from side to side and whimpered.

Mycroft was behind the sofa, kissing Lestrade’s face and murmuring words: lovely, beautiful, open, warm, sweet, exquisite, edible.

Lestrade’s face was strained with pleasure, and she whined, “Sherlock, come here.” Sherlock rose and settled on Lestrade’s left on the sofa. Lestrade opened a leg wider and shoved three fingers of her left hand between her legs awkwardly, avoiding John. “I want to taste myself on you.” They kissed sloppily while Lestrade rocked into her own fingers and John’s mouth. Mycroft’s hand snaked to Lestrade’s right breast, pinching the nipple hard. Lestrade’s whole body tensed as she clamped her legs tight, pushing John off her, and shouted.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

When Lestrade had stilled, John crawled back into her lap, straddling her. Lestrade lapped her scent off of John’s mouth. 

“You taste divine,” said John sweetly.

“Aged vintage,” joked Lestrade.

“Delicious,” answered John, nuzzling between her breasts anew. “Mmm-hmmm,” agreed Sherlock and gave Lestrade a soft kiss on her shoulder.  
“I’m afraid I’ll have to verify,” teased Mycroft. She came around to the front of the sofa and took Lestrade’s left hand and licked and sucked her first three fingers. “It’s unanimous,” she flirted. 

“You—cutie—need to come here,” said Lestrade to Mycroft. John and Sherlock looked at each other with raised eyebrows; they both vacated the sofa.

Lestrade was sitting in the middle of the sofa. Mycroft stretched out across her lap, resting her head on a pillow proffered by Sherlock. Lestrade leisurely stroked Mycroft’s short dark hair; Mycroft was almost purring. Lestrade looked at the pair in front of her. 

“Alright, Captain Three Continents, you’ve got an audience. Show us how you service your Queen properly,” said Lestrade.

“With pleasure,” said John as she gave a quick curtsey. Then she jumped into Sherlock’s arms and wrapped her legs around the detective’s waist.


	6. Sherlock

“What do you want?” whispered John, “You can have any wicked thing that brilliant mind of yours can conjure and that I—with my positively geriatric flexibility—can perform.”

Sherlock was holding her up, cupping her bare arse. John’s stockinged legs were wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock cast a quick glance at Lestrade and Mycroft, but they were absorbed in each other, playing an impromptu erotic game that involved the ostrich feathers and Lestrade’s wrists being lightly bound with Mycroft’s stockings. 

Sherlock’s voice broke, “Just you, John. Just. You.”

John scanned the detective’s visage and her own melted, “Sherlock Holmes! You want to… _make love_ …in the middle of an orgy!”

Sherlock blushed. 

“We owe them, “ John pointed toward the sofa with her chin, “a little bit of a wanton display.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Watson, that’s really more your division,” countered Sherlock, without sting to her words.

John considered. “Let’s get to bed before they notice we’ve gone,” she said quickly.

They stripped out of their clothes efficiently, rapidly and climbed on the bed. Sherlock nestled John beneath her. Soft caresses and tender nuzzling closed the space between them. John traced every bony prominence on Sherlock’s body with adoring fingertips. Then she gently pushed two fingers into Sherlock’s cunt, cupping her with her hand. The detective rocked against her leisurely. 

All the while, John murmured endearments in her ear, each more romantic than the previous: my darling girl, my brilliant sun, my enchanting moon, my wondrous sorcerer, my hunter and my prey, my damsel and my knight, my hallowed gift, my radiant treasure, my love. Sherlock came with a quiet shudder.

“I don’t want the world to know how utterly besotted I am by you, John; it frightens me,” confessed Sherlock. John replied warmly, “As long as you don’t hide it from me, I could not care less what the world knows, Sherlock.” She brushed Sherlock’s hair off her face and skimmed her features with her fingertips, reading them like a blind woman. They were kissing chastely when a voice sounded,

“Oy! Did you two change the venue without telling us? Not fair!” cried Lestrade.

“Showtime,” whispered John, flipping violently, arching her back and pushing up on Sherlock. 

“So the alpha wants to take her mate? Not willingly,” she growled.

Sherlock roared and rose up on her knees. She curled John’s hair around her hand and yanked her head back.

“Submit. Now,” Sherlock hissed. 

John winced and tried to escape. Then, they were wrestling, a flurry of scratches and bites and pinches, almost knocking Lestrade and Mycroft from their positions at the end of the bed.

“I will mount you like the bitch in heat that you are,” said Sherlock, forcibly spreading John’s legs wider, grinding her pelvis into John’s arse. She leaned forward and bit hard at the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder. John yelped. Then, they flipped again and Sherlock had John’s arms pinned to her sides. With a broad flat tongue, she licked possessively up either side of John’s neck, all the while pounding her hips into John’s.

“You. Are. Mine.” She thrust with every word, then gave a feral shriek, then stilled. She placed an invisible peck on John’s forehead as she slipped down her body and off of her. 

John was wide-eyed and gasping. Her skin bore red scratches and impressions of teeth and pinching fingers.

Mycroft breathed, “Sherlock!” John skittered into Mycroft’s arms and buried her face in her neck.

Sherlock withdrew to the top of the bed, a Byronic figure with dark locks and creamy skin, stretched out amongst the pillows. She gave her sister an arrogant, bemused smirk. 

Lestrade took a deep breath and said slowly, “Well….” John pulled away from Mycroft’s arms. She and Lestrade guided Mycroft to the center of the bed. They laid her on her back and flanked each side. 

“It seems, Ms. Holmes” said Lestrade, “That you are the only one clothed in a room full of naked ladies. What’s your pleasure?”


	7. Crescendo

Three sets of eyes focused on Mycroft.

“I find myself already quite… _sated_ …by the evening’s events.”

Three sets of eyebrows rose.

John asked carefully, “You don’t want a… _turn_? I think we’re pretty much up for anything.” Lestrade nodded.

“It’s been a very _stimulating_ encounter, but I’d prefer not…”

Lestrade interrupted, “Enough said. Well, should we reassemble ourselves to go back to the hotel?” Lestrade and John both blanched at the room, with clothing and underclothing, shoes and accessories strewn haphazardly. 

“Hmmm. Bunk here tonight? Is it safe?” asked Lestrade.

“Most assuredly,” replied Mycroft. 

“The fire is nice,” said John, looking at Sherlock who answered her with an almost imperceptible lift of the corners of her mouth. “Alright, let’s make camp,” she declared.

Lestrade went around the room, gathering the clothes and other items, and putting them a semblance of order. John shooed Mycroft and Sherlock off the bed and turned it down. Mycroft took off her waistcoat and breeches to the whistles of Lestrade and John when she showed her bare bottom. 

As Mycroft climbed back in the bed, Lestrade asked her, “Mycroft, when’s the last time you had a nice cuddle?”

“February 14, 1985,” replied Sherlock quickly. Mycroft made a rude gesture at her sister.

“Maybe it’s time to reset that clock,” offered Lestrade.

Mycroft hesitated.

Sherlock settled herself on the outer edge of the bed behind John, with her head propped on one hand. “Why not let yourself be adored, Sister Dear? It’s quite refreshing. And neither you—nor the rest of us—will remember it, so you won’t be able to regret it—even if you want to.”

Mycroft relented, “Mmmm.”

John and Lestrade gave quick squeals and wiggled down under the covers on either side of Mycroft, cocooning her with arms and legs. Each snuck her head on one of Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“And if it should turn into more than a cuddle…” flirted John, rubbing her nose playfully along Mycroft’s jawline. 

“Hush and go to sleep,” said Mycroft with a wide smile. 

“Good night, Mycroft,” said Lestrade and John in unison, kissing her cheeks. 

“Good night, ladies,” Mycroft chuckled. She cupped a face in each hand and brushed a kiss across each forehead. She curled an arm around each waist.

“Good night, Sherlock,” said John, turning and kissing her sweetly on the lips. 

“Good night, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, “And good night, John.” Lestrade squeezed the arm that was across Mycroft’s middle. 

“Good night, everyone,” said Sherlock, fixing herself tightly to John’s back.

One by one, they dozed. Sherlock’s breathing settled into a rhythm and eventually, Mycroft’s did too.

 

 

The room was beginning to cool as the fire died, but the four bodies were warm under the heavy blankets. John turned in her sleep to relieve the pressure on her left shoulder. In twisting, she accidentally brushed her arm across Lestrade’s arm and breast. Lestrade hummed. One eye half-opened, John repeated the touch purposefully, flicking Lestrade’s nipple slowly. Lestrade hummed louder. Mycroft’s fingers began rubbing circles along Lestrade and John’s back and buttocks. Lestrade raised her leg, and Mycroft teased her cunt gently, eliciting soft sleepy sighs. With her other hand, Mycroft lifted John’s buttock and Sherlock’s fingers found John’s folds. When John realized two sets of fingers were probing at her entrance, she moaned. It was slightly uncomfortable, but she turned her other arm and wrist, offering her fingers to Sherlock, who rocked her hips toward them. John and Lestrade laced their fingers awkwardly over Mycroft’s belly and wandered leisurely south. Mycroft opened her legs when their hands reached her mons, cupping her.

Above the blankets, four little heads lay in a row, unmoving, eyes closed. But beneath, six hands were tracing and exploring and stroking; four pairs of legs were parting; four sets of hips arching, seeking more. John exclaimed,

“We need to be _fucked_.”

With that, they all thrust. And the resulting noise was female arousal concentrated. Sherlock rode John’s fingers, while Mycroft and Sherlock thrust into John. John and Lestrade drove their fingers into Mycroft while Mycroft penetrated Lestrade. They bucked into each other over and over, grinding with delicious friction, delving into each others' wetness.

Eventually, Mycroft eased out of Lestrade and used her hand to pull the top blanket. It formed a parachute over their heads and settled on them, literally blanketing them in darkness. Then she offered her fingers to Lestrade, who licked them greedily. Beneath the layers, the scent of sex was heavy, causing all four to writhe.

John pulled her hand off Mycroft and cupped the woman’s head, pulling herself up Mycroft’s torso. She opened her mouth like a baby bird, and Mycroft kissed her, sloppily. John whimpered and let go of Sherlock's cunt, cupping her head too, pulling her closer. Then Sherlock and Mycroft were both kissing John simultaneously, and then they were kissing each other, with John licking at the edges and mewling. All the while, Sherlock and Mycroft were each thrusting and curling a finger inside John’s wet cunt. They each inserted an additional finger, stretching her and she cried out.

 

 

Mycroft pulled away from John and Sherlock and wrapped her arms around Lestrade. Mycroft began to speak when Lestrade pulled her hand off of her and put it over her lips to stop her.

“It’s Greg.” She curled her arms around Mycroft. 

Mycroft lightened, “Greg…”

“Hmmm?”

“I would very much like to _taste_ you.”

“Please!” heaved Lestrade. 

And with a dexterity few would have thought possible in someone who eschewed legwork at all costs, Mycroft dove upside down and settled herself between Lestrade’s legs, licking and sucking and probing with her tongue. 

Eventually, Lestrade threw out a loud litany of profanities and sacrilegious pleadings. Then as best she could manage from the angle, she teased the cunt before her with careful precision. Mycroft huffed and grunted softly. Then she righted herself. They kissed and snuggled close.

 

 

Sherlock pulled her fingers out of John and reached on the floor for a small firm pillow, which she shoved roughly under John’s hips. John gave a doubtful noise, but the darkness and the scent and sounds of Mycroft and Lestrade’s coupling soon had her grinding. 

“So fuckable,” said Sherlock as she cupped John’s arse, guiding the circling hips briefly.

“Think so?” mumbled John.

“Mmmm. Your cunt, warm, wet, soft, sweet, open, ready…”

John thrust her hips quickly at Sherlock’s words. Then she was pushing deep and hard into the pillow; Sherlock’s hand clamped over her mouth and John bit on the webbing between her fingers and thumb. Sherlock held her tight until her breathing slowed. “Oh my God,” she whispered wondrously in Sherlock’s ear; Sherlock smiled against John’s shoulder. 

“Sleepy?”

“Mmm-hmm...But Sherlock?” 

“Sleep.” Sherlock wrapped John tighter in her arms.

“Watch over me?” asked John in a child-like voice.

“Always,” replied Sherlock thickly.


	8. The Morning After

Dawn found the Holmes sisters sitting by fireplace, dressed. John and Lestrade were still asleep, nude, in the bed.

“Any long term side effects to the drug?” asked Mycroft.

“None identified so far, besides amnesia. What do you remember?”

“Very little, scarily enough. Do you think that…you and I…?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mycroft. I hope not, but with John, the unlikely sometimes…”

“…seems attractive; I’m not immune to this phenomenon. Regardless, this drug might be worth researching. It might have its _uses_ …”

Sherlock threw a glance at John’s prone figure on the bed and gave a whispered growl, “I will _garrote_ you!”

“Heel, Sherlock. I mean professional uses. But that’s for a later discussion,” Mycroft shrugged her shoulders. “I confess no residual effects, except perhaps a certain, new-found… _appreciation_ for the Detective Inspector.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

“Maybe. One day. But, to more immediate matters….”

“Find us the least embarrassing mode of transportation by which to return to the hotel,” Sherlock made a broad gesture to indicate their 18th century-inspired wardrobe, which looked comical in the morning light. 

“I can have someone leave a car downstairs, and we can drive ourselves.”

“Good.”

“Your pet stirs, Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded toward the bed. “Tend to her.” Then Mycroft took out her mobile and walked toward the window.

 

 

“Sherlock?” said John sleepily. She leaned up and looked around. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning.”

“Do I even want to know why Lestrade and I are naked in Louis the XVI’s bed?” she asked, hugging the sheets around her chest.

“The entire party was drugged. It was in the ice. How do you feel?”

John stretched a little and considered, “Parched…overwrought…a little sore in odd places. How are you? Did you even catch the bad guys before… _whatever_ …happened?”

“No, I am afraid they slipped through our fingers while we were _distracted_ …”

“So they’re still out there?”

“Yes.”

“Then the game is still afoot,” smiled John.

“Yes.”

“Let’s go get them.”

“That’s my girl.”


End file.
